home (is where your heart is set in stone)
by valonqars
Summary: "She can feel the beat of his pulse beneath the cold steel of her blade, and it is calm as the humid night air. The hint of a smirk threatens the corners of his mouth and there is mirth shining bright in his eyes. And then he lunges, quick as a viper found in the grasses of the Dothraki Sea."


It is the dead of night when he returns.

Crossing the narrow bridge, the young woman who goes by the name Nymeria makes her way back to the far side of the city, to the House of Black and White, for she is at last done with all her duties. She's begun to wear her hair long again, chestnut brown and unruly; it's fitting. As she starts to run her small hand through the tangle of wild curls cascading past her shoulders, she senses it.

No, she senses _him_.

It's the way the breeze blowing off the canal smells not only of salt and sea, but the exotic scent of cloves clings to it as well. It's how her heart starts racing within her chest, same as it does in her wolf dreams and when she's giving the gift of the Many-Faced god; those rare moments she feels the most alive. And it's the weight of his gaze.

Her steps hesitate just long enough for a chill to make its way down her spine. Knowing he's so close after nearly two years apart is unbearable. _Stupid_, she thinks, scolding herself for slowing. She continues along the weather-worn bridge as if she isn't aware of his presence behind her. But she knows he's realized she's caught on to his game.

_No matter how long he's gone or how far he's had to journey, he never wearies of this cat and mouse game_, she reflects, amused. And determined. _But I am a wolf and tonight the fox will learn whose prey._

The splash of water in the canal paired with the occasional muffled shout of a drunken bravo are the only sounds. Neither of their footsteps creates the slightest noise; they're both too skilled at their trade and learned long ago how to remain silent.

Nymeria turns into an unlit alleyway that stinks of soured wine and stale bread. A haggard tomcat slinks out from its cover of shadow and hisses at them angrily for being disturbed from its meager meal of fish bones. This alley is seldom traversed, hardly noticed even, except when someone too far in his cups chances to wander down it. But the Cat who sold cockles knew this alley as a shortcut therefore Nymeria knows it well, too.

_Just a bit farther_, she soon realizes. The niche in the wall-an alcove blocked from view by rotting wooden beams supporting the sagging roof of a dilapidated building-is close and the desire to look at him, to really look at him after all this time apart, and to have his warm skin beneath her fingertips feels as if it's consuming her.

But their game must first be played.

She allows herself to pass the alcove but the moment he is upon it, she slides out the short knife which was tucked within her rough tunic sleeve and turns on her heel, shoving him hard into the hidden niche. The alley is dim and this hideaway dimmer still, yet there is just enough light from the waxing moon that she can see his eyes clearly. Though the face he wears is ever-changing, his eyes are constant: blue as a winter rose but never as cold.

"Arya," he breathes out softly. His voice still holds the same unmistakable charm, apparent even in a single word. But this one word, these three simple syllables, speak more than any number of words could.

At the sound of her name-her true, gods-given name-Arya presses the razor sharp tip of her knife into the soft flesh of his throat until a drop of his life's blood the size of a pearl emerges. She can feel the beat of his pulse beneath the cold steel of her blade, and it is calm as the humid night air. The hint of a smirk threatens the corners of his mouth and there is mirth shining bright in his eyes.

And then he lunges, quick as a viper found in the grasses of the Dothraki Sea, taking her face between his large hands, his lips crashing against her own soft pair, losing all sense of self-control and restraint a Faceless Man is learned in.

But tonight, as with any night shared with her, he is only _Jaqen_.

Arya hesitates for the briefest of moments, then her grip on the knife slackens, and as it clatters to the stones at their feet, she parts her wanting lips willingly to him.

Two years may have passed since the last time they knew each other's embrace, but she has not forgotten the way Jaqen would growl deep in his throat as she kissed along the hollow of it. Or the way his hands, so sure and steady when ending a life, could tremble when gliding them slowly up along her lean thighs. Or especially the way her name, her_ true_ name, could sound almost reverent when whispered like a prayer whenever he buried himself inside her.

No, Arya has forgotten none of this and neither has he.

Their kiss deepens and her nails sink into his shoulders as he hoists her up against the wall. Before she loses herself completely to him and gives in to the wolf inside her, Arya finally admits to herself that though she may have been headed to the place she lays her head at night, only with Jaqen is she _truly_ home.


End file.
